24 February 2018

Is there an age at which we should stop writing novels? Philip Roth thought so. In his late seventies, he stopped writing because he felt his best books were behind him, and any future writing would be inferior. (His word.)

A colleague, Barbara Fradkin, brought this to my attention the other day, and it started a heated discussion.

Many authors have written past their prime. I can name two (P.D. James and Mary Stewart) who were favourites of mine. But their last few books weren’t all that good, in my opinion. Perhaps too long, too ponderous; plots convoluted and not as well conceived…they lacked the magic I associated with those writers. I was disappointed. And somewhat embarrassed.

What an odd reaction. I was embarrassed for my literary heroes, that they had written past their best days. And I don’t want that to happen to me.

The thing is, how will we know?

One might argue that it’s easier to know in these days with the Internet. Amazon reviewers will tell us when our work isn’t up to par. Oh boy, will they tell us.

But I want to know before that last book is released. How will I tell?

The Idea-Well

I’ve had 100 comedy credits, 40 short stories and 14 books published. I’m working on number 15. That’s 55 fiction plots already used up. A lot more, if you count the comedy. How many original plot ideas can I hope to have in my lifetime? Some might argue that there are no original plot ideas, but I look at it differently. In the case of authors who are getting published in the traditional markets, every story we manage to sell is one the publisher hasn’t seen before, in that it takes a different spin. It may be we are reusing themes, but the route an author takes to send us on that journey – the roadmap – will be different.

One day, I expect my idea-well will dry up.

The Chess Game You Can’t Win

I’m paraphrasing my colleague here, but writing a mystery is particularly complex. It usually is a matter of extreme planning. Suspects, motives, red herrings, multiple clues…a good mystery novel is perhaps the most difficult type of book to write. I liken it to a chess game. You have so many pieces on the board, they all do different things, and you have to keep track of all of them.

It gets harder as you get older. I am not yet a senior citizen, but already I am finding the demands of my current book (a detective mystery) enormous. Usually I write capers, which are shorter but equally meticulously plotted. You just don’t sit down and write these things. You plan them for weeks, and re-examine them as you go. You need to be sharp. Your memory needs to be first-rate.

My memory needs a grade A mechanic and a complete overhaul.

The Pain, the Pain

Ouch. My back hurts. I’ve been here four hours with two breaks. Not sure how I’m going to get up. It will require two hands on the desk, and legs far apart. Then a brief stretch before I can loosen the back so as not to walk like an injured chimp.

My wrists are starting to act up. Decades at the computer have given me weird repetitive stress injuries. Not just the common ones. My eyes are blurry. And then there’s my neck.

Okay, I’ll stop now. If you look at my photo, you’ll see a smiling perky gal with still-thick auburn hair. That photo lies. I may *look* like that, but…

You get the picture <sic>.

Writing is work – hard work, mentally and physically. I’m getting ready to face the day when it becomes too much work. Maybe, as I find novels more difficult to write, I’ll switch back to shorter fiction, my original love. If these short stories continue to be published by the big magazines (how I love AHMM) then I assume the great abyss is still some steps away.

But it’s getting closer.

How about you? Do you plan to write until you reach that big computer room in the sky?

Just launched! The B-Team

They do wrong for all the right reasons, and sometimes it even works!Available at Chapters, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, and all the usual online suspects.

12 November 2016

"The
grandest game in the world"--that's how Edward D. Hoch describes the
duel between mystery writer and mystery reader. In an essay called "The
Pleasure of the Short Story," Hoch explains why he prefers mysteries "in
which the reader is given a clue or hint well in advance of the ending.
As a reader myself I find the greatest satisfaction in spotting the
clue and anticipating the author. If I overlook it, I don't feel
cheated--I admire the author's skill!"*

And it takes a
lot of skill. In any mystery where this "grandest game" is played, the
delightful challenge offered to readers poses daunting challenges for
writers. We have to provide readers with clues "well in advance of the
ending," as Hoch says. In my opinion (and I bet Hoch would agree), we
should provide plenty of clues, and they should start as soon as
possible. As a reader, I feel a tad frustrated by mysteries that hinge
on a single clue--if we don't pick up on a quick reference indicating
the killer was wearing gloves on a warm day, we have no chance of
figuring things out. I also don't much enjoy mysteries that look like
whodunits but are really just histories of investigations.

The
detective questions A, who provides a scrap of information pointing to
B, who suggests talking to C. Finally, somewhere around F, the detective
happens upon the only truly relevant clue, which leads straight to a
solution that's obvious now but would have been impossible to guess even
three minutes sooner. That's not much fun.

But
working in lots of clues throughout the mystery isn't easy. Hoch
identifies "the great clue bugaboo" that plagues many detective stories:
"Clues are inserted with such a heavy hand that they almost scream
their presence at the reader." Especially in short stories, Hoch says,
avoiding that bugaboo requires "a great deal of finesse." I think that's
true not only in whodunits but also in mysteries that build suspense by
hinting at endings alert readers have a fair chance of predicting
before they reach the last page. Luckily, there are ways of camouflaging
clues, of hiding them in plain sight so most readers will overlook
them.

Here
are five camouflage techniques--you've probably used some or all of
them yourself. Since it wouldn't be polite to reveal other writers'
clues, I'll illustrate the descriptions with examples from my own
stories.That way, if I give away too much and spoil the stories, the
only person who can get mad at me is me. (By some strange coincidence,
all the stories I'll mention happen to be in my recent collection from
Wildside Press, Her Infinite Variety: Tales of Women and Crime.)

Sneak clues in before readers expect them:
Readers expect the beginning of a mystery to intrigue them and provide
crucial back story--or, perhaps, to plunge them into the middle of
action. They don't necessarily expect to be slapped in the face with
clues right away. So if we slide a clue into our opening sentences, it
might go unnoticed. That's what I tried to do in "Aunt Jessica's Party,"
which first appeared in Woman's World in 1993. It's not a
whodunit, but the protagonist's carrying out a scheme, and readers can
spot it if they pay attention. Here's how the story begins:

Carefully, Jessica polished her favorite sherry glass and placed it
on the silver tray. Soon, her nephew would arrive. He was to be the only
guest at her little party, and everything had to be perfect.
Five minutes until six--time to call Grace. She went to the phone near
the kitchen window, kept her eyes on the driveway, and dialed.
"Hello, Grace?" she said. "Jessica. How are you? Oh, I'm fine--never
better. Did I tell you William's coming today? Yes, it is an
accomplishment to get him here. But it's his birthday, and I promised
him a special present. He even agreed to pick up some sherry for me. Oh,
there he is, pulling into the driveway." She paused. "Goodbye, Grace.
You're a dear."

I
count at least six facts relevant to the story's solution in these
paragraphs; even Jessica's pause is significant. And there's one solid
clue, an oddity that should make readers wonder. Jessica's planned the
timing of this call ("time to call Grace"), but why call only five
minutes before her nephew's scheduled to arrive? She can't be calling to
chat--what other purpose might the call serve? I'm hoping that readers
won't notice the strange timing, that they'll focus instead on hints
about Jessica's relationship with her nephew and the "special present"
she's giving him. I've played fair by providing a major clue. If readers
aren't ready for it, it's not my fault.

Hide a clue in a series of insignificant details: If
a detective searches a crime scene and finds an important clue--an
oil-stained rag, say--we're obliged to tell readers. But if we don't
want to call too much attention to the clue, we can hide it in a list of
other things the detective finds, making sure some sound as intriguing
as an oil-stained rag. I used this technique in "Death in Rehab," a
whodunit published in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine in
2011. When temporary secretary Leah Abrams accepts a job at a rehab
center, her husband, Sam, doesn't like the idea that she'll be
"surrounded by addicts." Leah counters that being around recovering
addicts will be inspirational, not dangerous, but Sam's not convinced:

"They're
still addicts, and addicts do dangerous things. Did you read the local
news this morning?" He found the right page and pointed to a headline.
"'Gambling Addict Embezzles Millions, Disappears'--probably in Vegas by
now, the paper says. Or this story--`Small-time Drug Dealer Killed
Execution Style'--probably because he stole from his bosses, the paper
says. Or this one--`Shooter Flies into Drunken Rage, Wounds Two'--the
police haven't caught that one, either."

Savvy
mystery readers may suspect one of these news stories will be relevant
to the mystery, but they can't yet know which one (this is another
early-in-the-story clue). In fact, I've tried to make the two irrelevant
headlines sound more promising than the one that actually matters--and
if you decide to read the story, that's a big extra hint for you. About
halfway through the story, Sam mentions the three news stories again. By
now, readers who have paid attention to all the clues provided during
Leah's first day at work should have a good sense of which story is
relevant. But I don't think most readers will figure out murderer and
motive yet--and if they do, I don't much care. I've packed this story so
full of clues that I doubt many readers will spot all of them. Even
readers who realize whodunit should find some surprises at the end.

Separate clues from context:
We're obliged to provide the reader with clues and also, I think, to
provide the context needed to interpret them. But I don't think we're
obliged to provide both at the same time. By putting a careful distance
between clue and context, we can play fair and still keep the reader
guessing. In "The Shopper," a whodunit first published in a 2014
convention anthology, a young librarian's house is burglarized while
she's at home, asleep. That's unsettling enough, but her real worries
begin when the burglar--a pro the police have nicknamed The
Shopper--starts sending her notes and returning some things he stole. He
seems obsessed with her. Also, two men she's never seen before--one
blond, one dark--start showing up at the library every day. She suspects
one of them might be The Shopper, but which one? (And who says you
can't have a puzzling whodunit with only two suspects?) Then things get
worse:

She
didn't really feel like going out that night, but she and Lori had a
long-standing date for dinner and a movie. It'd be embarrassing to admit
she was scared to go out, and the company would do her good. But when
she got to the restaurant, she spotted the blond man sitting in a booth,
eating a slab of pie. He has a right to eat wherever he wants, she
thought; but the minute Lori arrived, Diane grabbed her hand, pulled her
to a table at the other end of the restaurant, and sighed with relief
when the blond man left after a second cup of coffee.
The
relief didn't last long. As she and Lori walked out, she saw the dark
man sitting at the counter, picking at a salad. He must have come in
after she had--had he followed her? She couldn't stand it any more.

I'd
say there are five major clues in this story. Two are contained--or, in
one case, reinforced--in these paragraphs. A reader keeping careful
track of all the evidence could identify The Shopper right now, without
reading the remaining seven pages. But since these clues are revealing
only in the context of information provided five pages earlier, I'm
betting most readers won't make the connection. The Shopper's secrets
are still safe with me.

Use the protagonist's point of view to mislead readers: This technique isn't reserved for mystery writers. In "Emma
Considered as Detective Fiction," P.D. James comments on Jane Austen's
skillful manipulation of point of view to conceal the mysteries at the
heart of her novel. Emma constantly misinterprets what people do and
say, and because we readers see things from Emma's perspective, we're
equally oblivious to what's really going on. In our own mysteries,
unless our protagonist is a genius who instantly understands everything,
we can use the same technique: If our protagonist overlooks clues,
chances are readers will overlook them, too. In "A Joy Forever" (AHMM,
2015), photographer Chris is visiting Uncle Mike and his second wife,
Gwen. Uncle Mike is a tyrant who's reduced Gwen to the status of
domestic slave--he orders her around, never helps her, casually insults
her. Gwen takes it all without a murmur. After a dinner during which
Uncle Mike behaves even more boorishly than usual, Chris follows Gwen to
the kitchen to help with the dishes:

As I watched her standing at the sink, sympathy overpowered me again.
She was barely fifty but looked like an old woman--bent, scrawny,
exhausted, her graying hair pulled back in a tight bun. And her drab,
shapeless dress had to be at least a decade old.
"You spend
so much on Uncle Mike," I chided. "The golf cart, all that food and
liquor. Spend something on yourself. Go to a beauty parlor and have your
hair cut and styled. Buy yourself some new clothes."
She
laughed softly. "Oh, Mike really needs what I buy for him--he really,
really does. And I don't care how my hair looks, and I don't need new
clothes." Her smile hardened. "Not yet."
I felt so moved, and so sorry, that I leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "You're too good to him."

Chris
sees Gwen as a victim, as a woman whose spirit has been utterly crushed
by an oppressor. Readers who don't see beyond Chris's perspective have
some surprises coming. But in this story, by this point, I think most
readers will see more than Chris does. They'll pick up on clues such as
Gwen's hard smile, her quiet "not yet." I had fun playing with point of
view in this story, with giving alert readers plenty of opportunities to
stay one step ahead of the narrator. It's another variation on Hoch's
"grandest game."

Distract readers with action or humor:
If readers get caught up in an action scene, they may forget they're
supposed to be watching for clues; if they're chuckling at a character's
dilemma, they may not notice puzzle pieces slipping by. In "Table for
None" (AHMM, 2008), apprentice private detective Harriet Russo is
having a rough night. She's on a dark, isolated street, staking out a
suspect. But he spots her, threatens her, and stalks off. Moments later,
her client, Little Dave, pops up unexpectedly and proposes searching
the suspect's car. Harriet says it's too dangerous, but Little Dave
won't listen:

He
raced off. For a moment, I stood frozen. Call Miss Woodhouse and tell
her how I'd botched things--let Little Dave get himself killed and feel
guilty for the rest of my life--follow him into the parking lot and risk
getting killed myself. On the whole, the last option seemed most
attractive. I raced after Little Dave.
He stood next to the dirty white car, hissing into his cell phone. "Damn it, Terry," he whispered harshly, "I told you not to call me. No, I won't
tell you where I am. Just go home. I'll see ya when I see ya." He
snapped his phone shut and yanked on a back door of the car. It didn't
budge. He looked straight at me, grinning sheepishly.
That's
pretty much the last thing I remember. I have some vague impression of
something crashing down against me, of sharp pain and sudden darkness.
But my next definite memory is of fading slowly back into
consciousness--of hearing sirens blare, of feeling the cement against my
back, of seeing Little Dave sprawled a few feet away from me, of
spotting a small iron figurine next to him, of falling into darkness
again.

I hope readers will focus on the conflict and
confusion in this scene, and on the unseen attack that leaves Harriet
in bad shape and Little Dave in worse shape. I hope they won't pause to
take careful note of exactly what Little Dave says in his phone
conversation, to test it against the way he's behaved earlier and the
things people say later. If readers are too focused on the action to
pick up on inconsistencies, they'll miss evidence that could help them
identify the murderer.

We
can also distract readers with clever dialogue, with fascinating
characters, with penetrating social satire, with absorbing themes, with
keen insights into human nature. In the end, excellent writing is the
best way to keep readers from focusing only on the clues we parade past
them. Of course, that's not our main reason for trying to make our
writing excellent. To use Hoch's phrase again, mysteries invite writers
and readers to participate in "the grandest game," but that doesn't mean
mysteries are no more than a game. I think mysteries can be as
compelling and significant as other kinds of fiction. The grandest game
doesn't impose limits on what our stories and novels can achieve. It
simply adds another element that I and millions of other readers happen
to enjoy.

Do
you have favorite ways of camouflaging clues? I'd love to see some
examples from your own mysteries. (*Hoch's essay, by the way, is in the
Mystery Writers of America Mystery Writer's Handbook, edited by
Lawrence Treat, published in 1976, revised and reprinted several times
since then. Used copies are available through Amazon.)

10 November 2013

One of the grand dames of mystery, a mistress of the post-Golden Age following Agatha Christie, P.D. James, has given us her tips for effective writing. A student of putting words on paper, I've shared tips from great authors.

As it turns out, the Baroness James has written at least two sets of tips, as noted by one of our readers, which we've gathered in one place. Important: Click the links in the headings for the full articles and explanations.Writing Tips I, Mystery

Center your mystery

Study reality

Create compelling characters

Research, research, research

Follow the 'fair-play rule'

Read!

… and write

Follow a schedule

When working on a story, I daydream a lot, but it's creative daydreaming about the plot, as opposed to dawdling, which the grand dame refers to. There's a story about an actress wannabee who said she wanted to be a famous movie star. "Tell me," said the career counselor. "Do you want to be famous or want to be an actress?" James is saying the same thing: The goal in the front of your mind must be writing the best you can, not fantasizing about fame.

Here again is the Baroness, the inimitable Phyllis Dorothy James, with an update.

01 March 2012

It is always interesting to see writers operating off their usual turf. Sometimes, the results are disastrous – John Le Carre’s The Naive and Sentimental Lover comes to mind. Other times, skills that flourish in one genre turn out to be dynamite in another. Arguably P.D. James’s best novel is The Children of Men, her futurist tale of a disastrous population crash in near future Britain. The careful characterization and thoughtful prose of her mysteries seem even better when unhitched from the genre requirements of red herrings and planted clues.

Similarly, the Canadian poet and novelist Margaret Atwood hit it big with The Handmaid’s Tale, another futurist foray about an infertile future. (It’s a nice question why this theme resonated with two female novelists in a time of over population). The narrator has a poet’s grasp of the language and the combination of a flamboyant style and a thriller plot made it no surprise that Handmaid later showed up on the screen – and in an opera.

With 11/22/63, Stephen King is the latest writer to move off his particular literary reservation a novel about a time traveler who heads off to Dallas to block the Kennedy assassination. Like Atwood and James, he brings a heady literary arsenal, particularly his gifts for visceral effects, violent action, morbid atmosphere and imaginative plotting.

He doesn’t completely avoid his patented horror effects, either, nor his affection for schools and teenagers, who, in the main, get a charming and sympathetic treatment. Indeed, many of the characters, particularly the minor ones, are sharply observed and appealing.

So is 11/22/63 in the rare category of the totally successful and unexpected? To my mind, not quite, though to be honest, I am a fan of his non-fiction, not his stories. Some of it is excellent, and who can say too much against a writer who comes up with a line like : “A universe of horror and loss surrounding a single lighted stage where mortals dance in defiance of the dark.” He also has some trenchant observations about life, American politics, and human limitations, and the ending is genuinely touching.

On the down side, the book is enormously long, too long, I think, to be carried by Jake Epping/ George Amberson, the English teacher time traveler, who finds a ‘rabbit hole’ to the past in the back room of his friend Al’s diner. He steps out into September of 1958, the Land of Ago, where he first attempts to reset the life of his school’s handicapped janitor before setting his sights on changing history big time.

George is a fine functional character. He is good at any number of things and abundantly gifted with the savoir faire that enables him to make a living without documents in 1958 and fit into the ‘Sixties without more than a few linguistic slips and some unwise song lyrics. The heroine falls for him; his colleagues like him, and even derring-do is not beyond his brief.

But he does not seem to have much of an interior life. Until the very end, he seems to have few conflicts and, like most of the characters, he belongs to a universe where good and bad are sharply separated. George once confesses to cowardice, momentarily, otherwise he’s a white hat all the way.

Towns, too, are clearly on one of the other side of the moral scale. Derry, Maine, where George first goes to change destiny, is a creepy place, and King can’t resist suggesting a real monster in an old chimney. Dallas, similarly, is haunted by evil, and the famous Book Depository is almost the personification of brooding malice. In contrast, Jodie, the small Texas town where George finds happiness, is almost overflowing with good will and good folks.

11/22/63 is clearly and vigorously written but at over 800 pages, I, at least, began to find the five years before that November day in Dallas very long indeed. Part of the length is caused by the way King has set the parameters of his time travel scheme. It is always September 1958 when one leaves the rabbit hole and precisely two minutes later in modern time when one returns.

Furthermore, every time George re-enters the rabbit hole, the past is reset and any changes he made on his previous visit are erased. You can see the potential for a Groundhog Day scenario, and there is something exhausting about the resets and the repetition of events. I’m probably a minority opinion, but I think 11/22/63 would, indeed, have been masterly at about two thirds of its present length.

Still, there are plenty of things to like as well as some curious touches. The importance of dancing is not so surprising ( Dancing is life) in a man clearly fond of music and devoted to art. But the sense that 11/22/63 conveys of the fragility of reality and the contingency of all our perceptions surprised me in a writer whose great gift is the transcription of violent bodily states.

Indeed, the last writer I would compare to King is Nathaniel Hawthorne, though like King’s narrator, he was often criticized for lacking red-blooded emotions. But early in The Marble Faun, Hawthorne has an interesting passage about the sorts of stories, touched with the uncanny and the supernatural, that both he and King construct.

Of the ruins of Rome, which attracted him as the ruins of our old industrial towns attracts his modern counterpart, he writes of the ‘ponderous remembrances’ of the city where “our individual affairs and interests are half as real here as elsewhere. Viewed through this medium, our narrative– into which are woven some airy and insubstantial threads, intermixed with others, twisted out of the commonest stuff of human existence– may not seem widely different from the texture of our lives.”

English teachers as they are, Jake Epping/ George Amberson would heartily agree.